


Come Undone

by murderousfiligree



Series: Drowning Lessons [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Referenced murder, Zoldyck Family Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderousfiligree/pseuds/murderousfiligree
Summary: Thread by thread, Illumi’s world is unraveling.AKA the one where Illumi bleaches his asshole to cope.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Illumi Zoldyck & Kikyou Zoldyck
Series: Drowning Lessons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866727
Comments: 7
Kudos: 143





	Come Undone

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic won’t be very coherent if you haven’t read the previous fics in this series.** If, due to the triggering content, you are unable to read one or both of those (or if you just don’t want to), feel free to DM me on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/foxhisoka) or [ tumblr](https://thranduilsbitchboy.tumblr.com) and I’ll summarize the important events for you. 
> 
> This will be my last addition to this series for a while. I have two more fics planned, but they are on the long side, and I am a terminally slow writer. I hope you enjoy this oneshot in the meantime. 
> 
> [Title song link! ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ss31RW9YaPE)

Illumi walked alone on the mountain road.

The day was cool and clear, the testing gate a speck of silver in the afternoon light. Behind it, Kukuroo mountain stood shrouded in its perpetual mists. Though still several hours away at his current pace, he could see the city ahead, bright roofs hemmed in by Padokia pines. 

It would be faster to cut through the forest, but he’d started down the public road, half hoping to catch a bus rumbling up the dirt path. The feel of metal crumpling beneath his fingers, the screams of the hapless tourists cut short by a fusillade of needles—this might quell the rage pulsing through him, if only a little. But it wouldn’t be enough. There was only one man both willing and able to endure Illumi’s wrath, and that man was too far away to be of immediate help. 

Hisoka. 

Illumi halted on the edge of the cliff, stared sightlessly into the wind. He imagined his hands around the magician’s throat, crushing his moans into silence. Bloodlust mixed with arousal, wild and furious, unbridled. 

Yes, he needed to see Hisoka. 

Last he heard, the magician was at Heaven’s Arena. If he booked an airship he could be there tomorrow morning. Even if Hisoka wasn’t there, it was the best place to start looking for him. Illumi was good at finding people, whether or not they wanted to be found.

Should he go now? He raised a hand to his eye, mapping the tenderness with his fingertips. It was swollen from the ridge of his eyebrow to the top of his cheek. He had no mirror, but knew from experience it was an ugly wound, not easily concealed. If Hisoka saw him like this there would be questions. 

Thanks to the regenerative properties of _Nen_ , the bruise would heal in a few days—he’d book an airship for the day after tomorrow, arrive at Hisoka’s doorstep on Friday. Until then, his anger served no purpose. 

Illumi took a deep breath, shut his eyes. If he attacked a bus, his father would hear about it. It was not befitting a Zoldyck to throw tantrums, destroying without aim or purpose. The man was already furious with him; why add fuel to the fire? 

When he opened his eyes the rage receded. It was not gone—he could feel it stirring in his gut, a beast pacing in its cage—but he was in control of himself again, and he could think. 

He’d left the mansion in a hurry. He had only the clothes on his back, his cell phone, his hunter’s license, and his credit cards; his father might decide to cancel the cards, but the thought probably hadn’t occurred to him yet. Still, it would be prudent to book the airship tickets soon. It was one thing to sneak on board to stalk a target and another to sneak on board because you don’t have any money. A punch in the face was nothing compared with wounded pride. 

Illumi peered down the cliff face, sheer rock with scattered talus below. He’d climb down, take the forest path to the city. Purchase the tickets, find a hotel, lay low for a while. In three days’ time he’d be fucking Hisoka senseless. 

He would find something to do in the interim. 

* * *

Footsteps in the corridor. 

Illumi took note of the sound, as he always noted changes in his surroundings, but he did not allow it to distract him. He’d been maintaining his _Ren_ for sixteen minutes now, and if he made it to twenty he’d surpass his previous record. His father wanted him to hold it for an hour by the end of the month; he’d been practicing day and night since Tsubone taught him the technique, and he was determined to make the man proud. 

“Illumi?” 

His eyes darted to the doorway, where his mother stood wringing her handkerchief. She was dressed in an elaborate blue gown with a matching sunhat, and Gotoh was beside her; they were evidently going out. 

“Yes, Mother?” 

“I want you to come with me,” she said. 

“Where?” 

Though the visor obscured much of her expression, he could tell by the set of her mouth she did not appreciate this reply. “To the city. It’s a nice day, and it’s been too long since you and I have gone anywhere, just the two of us.” 

Illumi frowned. His mother had been acting strangely since they sent Milluki to Heaven’s Arena—crying more than usual, leaving the mountain for long stretches of time—but until now she’d kept mostly to herself. Was this some kind of test? If there was something she wanted him to accomplish in the city, why not order him outright? 

A bead of sweat slipped down his forehead. Seventeen minutes down, three to go. “Now is not the best time,” he said. “Father wants me to—” 

“Your father isn’t here,” she snapped. Then, softly: “He’s in Yorknew, dear. You know that. I don’t think he’d mind if you took a little break.” 

“Can it wait?” Illumi licked the salt from his upper lip. “Just a few minutes and I’ll—” 

“Do as you’re told!” 

His aura guttered at the sound of her shriek. He sighed, allowed his _Ren_ to dissipate; so much for mastering _Ken_. 

“Yes, Mother.” 

She asked questions about his progress on the drive, and Illumi gave quick, practiced responses. Perhaps this was some sort of training exercise after all? He’d heard about _En_ —a technique for detecting the presence of other _Nen_ users. A crowded area like the city square seemed a natural place to learn. 

Gotoh stopped the car just outside the city limits; the butler exchanged a few words with his mother and returned to the car. She opened her parasol as he drove away, tires kicking up dust. 

“Come along now, Illu.” 

There were only a few people in the city who could recognize a Zoldyck on sight, and they were wise enough to steer clear. The rest, though ignorant of their identities, still gave them a wide berth; his mother wasn’t particularly tall—at twelve years old, Illumi’s head reached her chin—but her hat gave the impression of height, and the visor had a certain mechanical malevolence with its red cyclops’ eye.

Vendors lined the street, wares displayed on wooden carts, fruit and meats and clothes and jewelry. There was a smell of fish cooking in the air.

“Are you hungry?” asked his mother. 

“No.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes.” 

As they continued past the market, the street opened into a circular plaza with a tall fountain at its centre. There were children playing in the water, about Killua’s age, barefoot and laughing, pants hiked up to their knees. Illumi looked away. 

His mother finally stopped in front of a polished wood door; peering out from beneath the parasol, Illumi spied the words “Dentora Beauty” in elaborate gold cursive. His brows knit in confusion. Was he going to learn _En_ here?

“Follow my lead,” said his mother. “You’re going to love this.” 

Ten minutes later Illumi found himself lodged in a cushioned chair. His mother sat beside him, one hand flat on the white table, the other in the grasp of a young woman, a stranger. The woman grabbed a rectangular tool which appeared to be made of foam, looked closely at his mother’s hand, and passed the tool over her nails. It made a soft rasping sound, like sandpaper on wood. 

“Sit up straight, Illumi. And give the nice girl your hand.” 

Illumi’s gaze fell on the woman across from him. She had blonde hair and dark eyes, and by his estimation was not a _Nen_ user; some of the best _Nen_ users were excellent at concealment, however, so one could never be too careful. Keeping his right hand close to his chest, he stuck his left on the table. 

“Both hands, Illumi. Like me.” 

He reluctantly mirrored his mother’s position, clenched his teeth as the woman examined his hands. Her fingers were warm against his own. 

“Relax, honey.” His mother shifted in her seat. “She’s not going to hurt you, no one here will. I’ve been coming to this place for years.” 

Unconvinced, Illumi let his eyes drift towards the back of the salon. Along one wall, there was a row of chairs on high pedestals, a little tub of water at the foot of each one. Opposite this arrangement sat a row of swivel chairs, bolted to the floor. These faced a wall of mirrors, around which brushes, combs, and other devices Illumi did not recognize were arranged on narrow shelves. Aside from the two women serving them, the establishment was empty. 

“The shop is usually closed on Sundays,” explained his mother, “but the owner makes exceptions for wealthy patrons. Lucky for us, don’t you think?” 

There was a small, sharp noise; when he looked down, he saw his index nail had been clipped short. “What is the purpose of this?” he asked. 

“Purpose?” She let out a laugh. “Well, what’s the purpose of washing our hair? Or wearing nice clothes?”

“My hair feels bad if I don’t wash it. And I wear whatever clothes you give me.”

His mother pursed her lips. “Watch her work, Illumi.” 

Illumi obeyed. The woman was occupied with his left hand, scraping gunk from beneath the shortened nails. His right hand was untouched, nails still long and jagged, nearly black with grime. He usually cleaned them himself, but he’d been so busy practicing _Ken_ that it’d slipped his mind. 

“I could do this at home,” he said. 

“You could cook your own meals, too. You might even cobble together something edible, but it wouldn’t be very good. Would you like to do that?” 

“No.” 

“I didn’t think so.” She tilted her head back. “Let the chef cook your dinner, let the beautician clean your nails. They’ll do a better job. Besides, it feels nice.” 

Illumi did not agree on this last point; he could count on one hand the number of strangers who had touched him and lived to tell the tale, and he preferred to keep it that way. Still, it was no use arguing something so subjective. He opted for another approach: 

“Cooking food is a lot harder than cutting nails, and we have to eat to survive. What does it matter if my nails are dirty?” 

“What does it _matter_?” He couldn’t see his mother’s eyes, but he felt her reproachful look. “Do you think your father meets clients with his clothes unwashed, teeth unbrushed, smelling like some kind of barbarian? We’re professionals, Illumi, and looking professional is part of the job.” 

He could think of no rebuttal to this; she was probably right. His mother had always dictated how he dressed, so Illumi never put much thought into his appearance (cleaning himself was just a matter of routine). Looking like he did had its advantages—few expected the twelve year old in a tracksuit to be an expert assassin—but one day he’d be grown, and he’d have to dress the part. 

A thought occurred to him.

“Could a person use _Nen_ to alter their appearance?” 

There was a long pause; for a moment he thought his mother hadn’t heard the question. Children were playing outside, their squeals of delight dampened by the thick wood walls. 

“Yes,” she said at last. “They certainly could.” 

His nails were now trimmed and clean. A steel instrument pushed his cuticles back, and Illumi watched the process with mild interest. Next to him, the other beautician applied red paint to his mother’s nails. 

“Can mine be purple?” he asked. 

She flashed a tight smile. “Of course, dear. Whatever you like.” 

* * *

Dentora Beauty was still there. 

The sign on the door had been remade—there were red and gold block letters now, instead of gold cursive—but the inside looked the same as it had on his last visit. Same white marble front desk, same fake plant by the cash register. Even the woman behind it looked the same, though Illumi had never been good with faces (he could memorize a face for a job, of course, but that took conscious effort). 

There was one major difference, however: the salon was full of people. 

All the tall chairs were occupied, women sitting with their feet in buckets of water, or resting on a dry platform while employees sanded calluses away. There was a woman in one of the shorter chairs with a head full of silver foils. A large tapestry covered the rear room, and Illumi could see feet shuffling beneath it. 

He’d never been here without his mother. Despite her advice, he preferred to groom himself, and when he turned eighteen she’d stopped inviting him. Perhaps Kalluto had taken his place, or perhaps she’d stopped going altogether. He never thought to ask. 

His gaze slipped toward the front of the room. There were two rows of narrow tables behind the front desk; at one of these sat a woman with neat brown hair and a girl so small she needed a booster seat to reach the table. Both woman and girl were in the final stage of their manicure, hands hidden beneath identical drying machines. The girl pulled one hand out, examined her pink nails with wide-eyed fascination, and shoved it back into the dryer. 

Illumi closed his eyes. He thought of his mother’s hands folded against her yellow dress, its high collar concealing ligature marks. Like her face, her nails had been bare—no polish, clipped short and clean. It was unusual. He wondered if she’d done it herself, or if one of the butlers had cut them after she died. 

“Sir?” The woman at the desk was looking at him strangely. “Sir, are you alright?” 

“Yes, I’m fine.” Illumi set his credit card by the fake plant. “I’ll have everything, please.” 

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Your services. I require all of them.” 

“Oh! Uh, well, some things can’t be done together.” The clerk retrieved a laminated menu. “For example, here,” she pointed toward the top, “we can’t thread your eyebrows _and_ wax them. You have to pick one or the other.” 

Illumi took the menu. He frowned at it. 

“Why don’t you just mark the services you want?” She handed him a marker. “Take your time, there’ll be a bit of a wait. Afternoons are always busy.”

He uncapped the marker, then looked at the menu again. Last week he’d trimmed his own hair, so there was no need to cut it now. A conditioning treatment wouldn’t hurt, though—Hisoka always complimented his hair’s silkiness. He circled "hair mask," paused, and circled "body mask," too. Might as well be soft all over.

He skimmed past the eyebrow wax—he had precious few eyebrow hairs to begin with, and he wasn’t eager to pluck any off—but selected ‘full body wax’ without hesitation. He could feel the sharp prickle of hair on his legs and armpits; to get the body mask without waxing would defeat the point. 

Continuing on, he duly circled “manicure” and “pedicure.” He wasn’t in a colorful mood, but his fingernails needed to be clean if he was going to shove them in any of Hisoka’s orifices. He’d get a coat of clear polish, perhaps. 

Satisfied, Illumi capped the marker. He set the menu on the desk, and was sliding it towards the clerk when an unfamiliar phrase caught his eye. He cocked his head.

“What is ‘anal bleaching’?” he read aloud. 

“Oh, it, uh—it lightens the skin around the anus.” 

“Why?” 

The clerk shrugged; she was looking rather red. “It’s an aesthetic thing. Some people just like it pink!” 

Illumi considered this. He recalled the feel of Hisoka’s cock in his ass—full to bursting, body shaking like it was going to break apart, the magician moaning something about his “pretty little hole.” 

He uncapped the marker again. 

The next few hours passed in a blur. Strangers touching his hands and feet; an unintelligible hum of conversation; fingers massaging his scalp, pulling conditioner through his hair; a soft table, a dark room; hot wax on his groin, his legs, his armpits, the pale flesh of his areolae; a curious, tingling burn on his anus; lotion slathered on smooth skin, a warm towel wiping it all clean. 

It was dusk when he finished. The beautician left him alone to dress, and as he straightened to face the full length mirror he examined himself. Already the bruise on his face had faded from dark purple to yellow-green; it would be gone well before Friday. The rest of his skin was hairless and unblemished—he imagined it scored by Hisoka’s nails, crisscrossing lines of red, but stopped himself there. It would be inappropriate to become aroused here, even if the salon was nearly empty. Besides, he had errands to run. 

He paid the clerk, finding his credit card still worked. The clock above the front door declared it six thirty P.M.; the ticket booth on the north side of town closed at seven. If he hurried, he could make it. Once the airship was booked, he’d pick up toiletries and food and head back to the hotel. 

Illumi stepped out into the street. 

There were still people about—one woman nearly collided with him, whistling blithely to herself—but the children were gone. He could make out the silhouette of Kukuroo mountain in the darkling sky. Lanterns flared to life, filling the world with a frail gold light. 

Illumi’s gaze lingered on the mountain, as if searching for something. Then, seeming to remember himself, he turned and began to walk. 

* * *

His eyes traced the road winding away from the Royal Glam Hotel. The horizon quivered in the heat. A day had elapsed since Hisoka’s departure and the sandstorm had finally passed, revealing a blue sky and a city baptized in dust. There was a thin layer of it on everything—the chairs, the table, the cloth umbrella which shielded him from the sun—but Illumi hardly noticed. He had more important matters on his mind.

There were two empty shot glasses on the table, and a third which still contained a few ice cubes. He fished out one of these with a short black straw and crunched it mechanically, never diverting his gaze from his phone. 

Hisoka should have called by now. 

“Another whisky, sir?” 

His gaze flicked to the waitress. He nodded, leaned back as she collected the empty glasses. 

“You know there’s plenty of tables inside,” she said. 

“I know.” He plucked out another ice cube. “I don’t mind the heat.” 

She delivered his fourth shot in silence; when the phone finally rang, he nearly dropped the glass. 

“Hello?” said Illumi. 

“It’s done.”

Hisoka’s voice. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders. “Did you kill anyone else?” 

“A few butlers.” 

“Are you hurt?” 

“Nothing I can’t handle.” There was a hoarseness in Hisoka’s voice that made Illumi wonder, but he forced his concern aside. “When will you be back?” 

“Tomorrow. Miss me already?” 

“No.” 

Hisoka’s laugh was a thin rattle. “Liar. Why don’t you touch yourself for me?”

“I am at the bar.” 

“So?” 

Illumi sighed, pinched his brow. He’d thought such a challenging fight would sate Hisoka’s lust, at least for a little while. He should’ve known better; the magician’s libido was limitless. “I will see you tomorrow.” 

“Aw, don’t you want to—”

Illumi ended the call. Sipped his whiskey, contemplating. More than a year had passed since he last saw Killua; he had no inkling of his brother’s location, and now both of his parents were dead. With an absent heir, what would become of the Zoldyck estate? 

If he claimed the title himself (which would be permitted, if only until Killua’s return), he would become responsible for managing his family’s affairs—negotiating payment with clients, deciding which assignments to take and who should carry out those assignments, all in addition to his assassin work. He’d be spending a lot more time on Kukuroo mountain, and Hisoka wasn’t the type to settle down. Trying to control the magician was useless; he might as well throw his needles at a hurricane. But they were married now—surely that was worth something? 

The phone trilled again, breaking his reverie. 

“Hisoka, I am _not_ going to—”

“It’s Zeno.” 

“Oh.” Illumi set down his glass. “What is it, Grandfather?”  
  
He could hear a sigh on the end of the line. “Your father is dead.” 

“I know.” No point denying it. “Hisoka called me first.” 

“I see.” Zeno paused, letting the question “ _Why?_ ” pass unspoken between them. Illumi chose not to elaborate; his family would learn of their marriage soon enough. “Where are you now?”

“Glam Gas Land.” 

“When are you coming home?” 

Illumi squinted into the sun. A pair of vultures were drifting above, carving lazy circles in the cloudless blue. “I am still deciding,” he said. 

“I see. Well, keep us informed.” 

Illumi sat chewing his last ice cube, looking over the desert landscape—the snow-capped mountains swathed in indigo haze, red foothills, white buildings gleaming in the light. Sand slipped across the concrete, driven by wind; he thought of his mother’s ashes, by now buried in the family plot on the west side of the mountain. He used to sit watching the sunset in the company of those headstones, wondering how it felt to be stripped raw by fire. It had seemed unimaginable to him once; now the end didn’t feel so far off.

“Another, sir?” 

He blinked up at the waitress. Her eyes were blue and pitiless. “No, thank you,” he said. “I’ll have the check.” 


End file.
